A Day in the Life of a Houseslave
by Herverus Grape
Summary: Severus Snape has acquired a strangely familiar slave. APOLOGIES for the fact this was (incompletely, at that) posted under the wrong category initially.


  
The characters, locations and spells depicted within the following work of fiction were created and are owned by JKR, et al. There is no infringement intended upon her or the other interested parties rights and interests. I am merely using them for my own creative amusement, and receive absolutely no monetary reward for doing so.   
  
A Day in the Life of a Houseslave   


It was beastly hot today, and for what seemed to be the hundredth time she wearily raised her hand to her face and wiped away the sweat that was trickling off of it. The fact that she had just finished retrieving vegetables from the garden meant that she was leaving a dirty, muddy streak across her skin as she did so, but there was no help for it at the moment. As she made her way toward the greenhouse, she glanced over in the direction of the lake, which looked especially cool and inviting today. Perhaps, after she finished all of her chores, she would have a chance to sneak back and wash her face and hands in the briskly cold water. The thought of sitting there, her face lifted toward the sun while her feet were immersed in the chilly waves was so inviting that for just the briefest of moments she could picture herself doing just that. Except- 

Except, she frowned, stopping suddenly and starting, unseeing at the ground as she tried to remember, she hadn't been alone then. There had been others around, doing the same as she was and behind her she could her excited talk and whoops of laughter. Something about owls. She frowned now and closed her eyes, trying to concentrate as she tried to fathom why they were so happy about those particular birds on that specific day. But after a few seconds she had gone as far as she could and, abruptly opening her eyes, began striding rapidly across the grass again. She knew from past experience that any further attempt to pick through the half-forgotten memory would only result in a massive headache, and that sometimes the specifics would be driven away forever. It was much better to clear your mind and let the hazy fragments of the memories drift back into your consciousness as they rose unexpectedly from the sights and sounds around you. 

Of course, she found herself suddenly thinking, it was even hotter today, because that had been June. And the only day in August that she had ever been on the grounds had been the thirty-first of the month. Not the first of August, the date today if the calendar displayed upon the wall in the main hall could be trusted. She didn't even bother stopping this time, driven by both the urgency of completing her task and the knowledge that, as effortlessly as that thought had wafted into her brain, it would be worthless to pursue it. For the moment she should content herself with the assurance that, without a doubt, as she had previously expected, she had been at this place before her current imprisonment. 

Entering the greenhouse door, she took just a moment to turn around and gaze at as much of the castle and grounds that she could from this vantage point. Yes, she was sure that she had spent a considerable time here not only within the castle but upon the grounds, even venturing into that thick, creepy forest. Another memory waved over her for a moment, and she heard shouts of joy and someone crying something about catching a snitch. 

"Now why would anyone be so happy about capturing someone who had told tales about you?" she wondered. "Were you going to punish them, then?" 

Despite the heat in the greenhouse, she felt a sudden chill as the realization swept through her. No, there had been a game that involved doing just that-someone managing to seize some kind of ball. And she hadn't particularly enjoyed it. No, that wasn't right, she just hadn't been as enthusiastic as some others.   


She shivered again, but this time it was because her memory was clear and graphic. Whatever her reservations about _that_ game, it certainly had been better than the hideous spectacle that was now performed within the stadium by the Death Eaters. She had only been forced to watch it once, for she suspected that even her Master had little taste for the sport. To see a witch or wizard tied to a broom which flew of its own accord and circled the stadium with its unwilling occupant while the white-masked spectators took turns shooting curses was a revolting sight. By the amount of blood that had spilled out over the grass and sand of the field, it had been clear that the wizard had already been dead for quite a while by the time the Dark Lord himself had risen from his seat. Laughing his high, chilling laugh, he had fired off the final curse which decapitated the corpse and brought the broomstick to an abrupt halt before it tumbled to the ground. The two parts of the body had fallen, with sickeningly distinct thumps, onto the ground and one of the Death Eaters-the one with the strange metallic hand-had scampered out to the field to retrieve the head and present it to the Dark Lord. She hoped they had buried the body separately, or at least not just left it out upon the field to rot. But thankfully, she had never had to return to the stadium to see for herself. 

Oh, gods, it was even hotter in here, she thought, as she busied herself retrieving the samples that she needed. She raised her hand to her untidy and straggling hair and lifted it off of her neck for a moment. Her master absolutely refused to give her pins so that she could wear it up, but he had grudgingly allowed her to have a single hairband. It had snapped apart a few days ago when she had gone to place it around the thick plait that she had managed to braid. Her subsequent attempts to tie it together had failed miserably. It would have taken just a wave of her wand to repair it, of course, but she was strictly forbidden to use any spell not sanctioned by her master. He had been away for several days now, and it was possible that when he returned he would have no objection to her using her magic in this way, but it was always best not to assume such things. With a sigh, she dropped the thick mop of hair back down upon her back, swearing as she did so that a fresh stream of sweat was running down her neck, and bent down to begin selecting the finest petals and roots from the appropriate plants. 

At least it would be cool in the dungeons, she thought, as she labored in the steaming hot enclosure. Even though several of the ceiling panes had been opened, it was still hideously warm inside the greenhouse, and she took the time before she left to spray a generous amount of water over the wilting plants. She looked enviously at the refreshened stalks and at the moisture dripping off of their leaves. Taking in a breath, she turned in a circle once more and glanced carefully around her before daring, for the briefest of moments, to turn the water upon herself as well. Feeling immeasurably enlivened by this momentary cooling, she picked up the sack of vegetables in her right hand, and the bag of clippings in her left and headed back toward the castle. 

Arriving at the kitchen, she dumped the vegetables into the wash sink and briefly greeted her fellow slaves who laboring over the steaming pots and roaring fires of the vast room. They were supervised by thin, pale-faced slave, who could only manage to wave at her before she had to return her attention to the coordination of the cooking and cleaning. Her master not only allowed her to wear her gorgeous red hair pinned up, he insisted upon it. But she suspected it was only so that the bruises and 'love bites' (oh, gods, to refer to what he did to her as love) that had been inflicted upon her neck and shoulders could be clearly seen. 

Yes, she thought, as she finished sorting out the vegetables and paused to fold her sack and place it upon the floor, she had often found herself thankful that Master Lucius had not chosen _her_ for his slave. At the auction, his pale blue eyes had trailed over her several times, but he had turned his attention to the little redhead and his smile had broadened. Once he had begun to bid for her, she noticed that none of the other Death Eater's had continued to raise their hands. She had assumed that it had been the girl's much more voluptuous figure, or her exquisite hair that had aroused his interest, but there had been something very self-satisfied about the way he examined her as she was brought off of the block and delivered into his hands. 

"Oh, yes, my little titian-haired beauty," he had laughed, his right hand idly cupping around her breast as his left played against her thigh, "You shall provide hours of amusement for me. As a matter of fact, I have a whole room just filled with toys for us to play with. Several of them were even invented by Muggles," he said, his laughter suddenly becoming louder. "Of course, some might say that I am _misusing_ them." 

There had been such a definite implication in the way he accentuated that word that she had carefully stored it away for future reference. It's significance was still a mystery to her, but from other clues that had been dropped, she felt somewhat assured that "Flame", as he had christened the girl, and her family had done something in the past that had displeased him very much. It wasn't much to go on, but when your memory had been destroyed, you clutched at any and all straws. 

Oh, there were tantalizing glimpses and half-remembered images that floated through her brain and she was beginning to learn how to let them slip back into her consciousness. But, to be truthful, her first real memory of her existence continued to be that moment of awakening in agonizing pain in the hospital wing. Someone had dribbled some liquid down her throat and she had swallowed it eagerly, thinking that, no matter if it were a healing potion or a healthy dose of poison, it would alleviate the intense pain that was coursing through her body. Then she had drifted into a hazy half-sleep, though occasionally a clear word or two slipped through the mumble of conversation that surrounded her. 

_"-very damaged."_

_"But reparable."_ That voice she knew was that of her Master. A inflection that was decisive and resolved and not to be questioned, his timbre and enunciation breaking through the fog above the other voices. 

_"Combination...potion...spell...pensive."_

No, she thought suddenly, not pensive-Pensieve. But a moment later she had cried out in pain and found herself kneeling on the hard stones of the kitchen, her hands clasped to her temples. 

"Oh, dear, what have we remembered now?" asked a soft voice. Several of the slaves were gathered around, staring down at her helplessly, but Flame was pushing them aside and kneeling in front of her, reaching out to hug her in her arms and rock her gently until the stab of pain subsided. 

"Think of the supplies you were gathering," she whispered. "Let go of the other thoughts. Think of how you were obeying your Master's orders by getting them," she prompted. 

"Yes," she replied, "I had to get the roots of the Lingering Lily and the petals from the Crying Chrysanthemum-" 

The other slaves turned back to their work as she continued to recite the list, the ache gradually fading away as she concentrated on pushing the details of the list to the front of her mind. After several minutes, during which time she had recited the catalog a half dozen times, the throbbing in her temples had abated considerably. 

"Almost gone?" Flame asked gently. 

She nodded, and then winced as this movement exacerbated the headache again. 

"Here," said the redhead, bringing a small vial from out of her pocket. "Take some of this." 

"But you need it," she replied, reluctantly accepting the bottle which she knew contained a strong pain-relieving potion. 

"Oh, I'm fine," she assured with a shrug. Looking down at the assortment of bruises on her arms, she continued. "My Master isn't due back for until the day after tomorrow, so I'll be okay." 

She was sorely tempted, but still she hesitated. They weren't, as far as she knew, strictly forbidden to share such medicines, but that didn't mean that Master Lucius wouldn't decide to punish them anyway. 

"Look, he never questions me when I ask him for more," she said. "Thinks its quite the joke, actually, that I thank him for giving me the medicine that I wouldn't need if he didn't beat the crap out of me every few days or so." Behind the resignation in her tone, there was just the barest hint of anger.  
  
Still she refused to raise the vial to her lips.  


"All right, a deal," said Flame, closing her fingers over the bottle that was balanced upon her hand. Her voice dipped down into a whisper so low that she had to strain to hear it. "Try and tell me what you just remembered. After that, you'll definitely need to use all of this." 

She took in a quick, frightened breath. Remembering was bad enough, of course. That was why part of the "treatment' process that the Death Eaters had used upon them when wiping out their memories had included the triggering of severe, almost unbearably painful headaches when one was near to recalling something terribly significant. They had found that the only thing capable of intensifying the agony was when they tried to speak of what they had remembered to others. 

"All right," she agreed, uncapping the bottle and bringing it close to her lips. She would only have several seconds to attempt coherent speech before she would be forced to swallow down the drug. 

"A large shallow bowl-" The pain immediately stabbed through her head. "Memories-silvery-" She gasped and felt tears starting to flow from her eyes "strands-Pensieve-" Now the room was growing dark and the next thing she knew she was falling backward onto the floor, sparks flying in front of her eyes as her skull thudded against the stone, her head feeling as if it were on fire. The potion was being poured into her mouth and she gasped in surprise and spit some out, but Flame's fingers cupped against her cheek and gently channeled as much of the liquid as she could back into her mouth. This time she managed to swallow and after a few minutes felt well enough to be eased back to a sitting position. 

"You okay?" asked Flame, gently. 

"Yeah, how about you?" she asked, reaching back to rub the aching spot on where her skull had cracked against the floor. 

"Fine, unfortunately," she sighed. Shrugging her shoulders she continued, "I felt just a little bit of a twinge, but I think I had only heard or read about what you were describing," she said thoughtfully. "You must have known more about it," she concluded. 

"But it's part of what they did to us," she whispered, suddenly rising to her knees as her heart began to pound. Thankfully, the potion was still being absorbed into her bloodstream so that, although her temples were throbbing softly again, the pain was bearable. "That's part of how they took our memories away." 

Flame narrowed her eyes and concentrated for a moment. "Nope," she said, with a sigh. "I was so drugged up, I don't recall that at all." 

She felt her body sag with disappointment. 

"No, no," assured the other girl, reaching out to brush her hair back from her forehead, "It was a very important thing to remember, I'm sure of it!" Shaking her head again, she continued, "It hurts you a lot more because it's related to some very important things in your past. I'm absolutely certain of it." 

Flame reached out to hug her again and they remained there, rocking against and comforting each other as the other slaves ignored them and went about their work. As she opened her eyes, her gaze fell upon the large clock situated near the top of the wall. 

"Oh, gods!" she shrieked, pulling away and jumping to her feet. "I"m supposed to have the Interrogation Room cleaned up by now!" 

"Hurry!" shouted Flame, pushing her toward the door. 

But she had only taken a few steps before she remembered her other sack and turned back to retrieve it. 

"Oh, go on!" urged the redhead, reaching down to pick it up. "I'll take this to your Master's office." 

"No, he's very particular about where everything goes," she cried, holding out her hands. "I'll just have to rush through it." 

Her heart, which had barely returned to a normal rhythm, swiftly began to thump wildly against her chest as she flew through the halls, not daring to slacken her pace as she hurled herself down the treacherously steep stairs that led to the dungeon. A little while ago she had almost been looking forward to being down there, knowing that the atmosphere, although dank and mildewed, would also be comfortingly cool after the blistering sunlight of the grounds and the stifling heat of the kitchens. But the physical toll upon her body as she struggled through the memory had left her feeling weak and chilled, and she found herself shivering as she reached into her pocket to retrieve her wand. 

Well, not really _her _wand. The wands that were distributed to the slaves were made from the cheapest wood, with only a small strand of magical substance at its core. She had known at once when it was given to her that it was not her own. Not because her mind could remember what her own wand had looked like, but because the very feel of the thin baton had seemed foreign and unnatural to her hand. And yet she had managed to do any spell that they had ordered her to perform. In fact, her Master had watched her very carefully for the first couple of weeks, and had taken the first wand away and replaced it with another. This one, she suspected, had an exceedingly tiny amount of dragon heartstring as its core, for she had to struggle with it in order to perform the simplest charm. This no doubt signified that her natural powers were extraordinarily strong and therefore he was anxious to ensure that she could not use the flimsy instrument to perform a significant spell. 

But she had been accustomed to it by now, so it was with confidence that she pointed it at the lock and pronounced the charm. 

_"Alohamora!"_

The door swung obediently inward and immediately her nose was overwhelmed by the stench inside. She had never known that anyone other than vampires could smell blood, but her intimate acquaintance with copious amounts of the vital fluid that she had been forced to scrub from the floors had left her able to sniff out the metallic scent with ease. Not that it was the only putrid smell within the room. Oh, no, there was always vomit, piss and excrement as well, for the Death Eaters were never satisfied until they had managed to make their victims suffer in unimaginable ways as they 'interrogated' them. Those who tried to hold out would be systematically tormented until they either talked or died. And those who the very sight of the instruments of torture moved to speak immediately found that there was no mercy given to them for their acquiescence. 

She had wondered at first, why they allowed her to use magic to clean the filth from the floor and walls, thinking that it would amuse them more to make her scrub it away by physical means. But she had found that magic, although simplifying and hastening the process, also had it's own disadvantages. It appeared that witches and wizards killed in this way did not slip quietly from their earthly bonds. No there were reverberations and echoes of their physical and mystical presence left within the room and she had learned to try and close her mind and body to the faint whispers and ghostly images that waved around her as her own magic interacted with and aroused the traces of those who had died here. Instead, she concentrated on the thin beam of light emitted from the end of the wand as she painstakingly scoured away the dirt and debris. 

She worked as quickly as she could. She knew that she was already in trouble. For, should someone arrive at the room, expecting it to be cleaned by now, she could be punishment for being derelict in her duty. On the other hand, should she leave the slightest speck upon the stones, the penalty would be even more severe. 

As she worked, she heard the vague screams of a woman crying out in agony and for the briefest of moments the image of a grey-haired witch appeared before her. 

So, it had been an old woman this time, she thought, pushing the sights and sounds firmly out of her mind as she bent down and concentrated on scrubbing the floor. When she had first begun this work, she had found herself unable to turn away, finding in some instances that she was sure she knew the victim. But the attempt to put a name to the vaguely familiar face had never been successful, and her Master had been absolutely livid when he had returned one day to find her lying against the floor with her face pressed into a pool of muck. She had fainted away from the physical exhaustion of trying to remember what she was forbidden to recall, and had received a thorough beating as a reward. 

Although, she had to admit, it had been the only time he had resorted to that method of punishment. In that regard, she was certainly luckier than Flame, who seemed to never quite recover from one whipping before she was subjected to another. 

No, her Master preferred to punish her with scathing words rather than blows or curses. He had performed 'Crucio' upon her occasionally, for it seemed to be expected of him. But she had to admit that she had been more terrified when he threatened to take away the one privilege he had granted to her. 

Much of the grounds were forbidden to the slaves unless they were cleaning. And even then, none of them were allowed access to the dusty room that lay beyond the chained doors above which the sign "Library" was hung. But she had found herself one day looking longingly at the bookshelves which lined the shelves of her Master's office as she cleaned the long row of jars lining his cupboard. 

"Would you like to be allowed to read some of them?" he had asked, coming up unexpectedly from behind her. 

She had started and turned, directing her gaze to the floor. A moment later the tips of his shiny boots had come into her line of vision. She had hesitated, wondering that if she said yes that he might punish her for her impudence. And yet, she suspected, if she said no, he would simply shrug and tell her to stop looking at them then. Her heart clenching painfully in her chest, she had fallen down upon her knees and licked her lips before replying. 

"Yes, please, Master Severus," she had answered, and then closed her eyes and shivered as she awaited his response. She had felt his fingers twine into her thick, bushy hair and pull upon it gently, forcing her to raise her face. 

"Open your eyes," he had commanded. 

She had obeyed and found herself staring up into his cold black eyes, his dark oily hair falling forward onto his face as he studied her. His thin lips were flattened into their habitual frown although the rest of his face was eerily expressionless. 

"Very well," he said, stepping back and raising his eyes to the shelves. "You may read this-" He was raising his wand and tapping upon the spine of a very thin book placed upon one of the top shelves, "And this-" he turned and repeated the motion with a slightly larger tome upon the next shelf. "And this," he finished, striding across the room and pulling out another volume, dropping this one carelessly upon the carpet. "But," he warned, his voice dropping down to a low hiss as he drew near her again, "You are not to tell anyone that I am allowing you such license nor are you to touch any of the other books." 

She had nodded, her eyes darting from his face and back to the shelves, desperately trying to pick out the books he had indicated since she was much too far away to have read the titles. 

"If you should attempt any of the magic detailed within them-" he paused and let the threat hang in the air. 

"I won't, Sir. Thank you, Master," she said, bowing down so that her forehead was resting against the carpet. 

"And," he had continued, nudging the toe of his boot against her face, "I shall expect you to be especially eager to please me the next time I take you." 

"Oh, yes, Master Severus, I will Master," she repeated. 

She had half-expected to feel him push her down, lift up the skirt of her thin frock and spread her legs then and there,. But instead she had heard his footsteps fade away across the carpet, and the creak and slam of the door as he exited the room. 

She had quickly gotten to her feet and fairly ran against the room, retrieving the books with shaking hands and hoping that she was selecting the correct ones. He had allowed her to remain the office for several hours and by the time he returned she was huddled against the window, struggling to continue reading in the last, fading rays of the sunset, afraid to light the candles without his permission. The books he had allowed her to have were ancient, with some passages so filled with archaic language as to be almost indecipherable. Even so, she had finished one of the books and was halfway through the other before she heard the door creak open again. 

"Return them to the shelves for now," he had ordered. 

She had done as she asked, still half-afraid that she might have chosen the wrong ones, but heard no rebuke as she went to replace them. In fact, he had not said another word to her the entire evening. He had beckoned silently for her to follow him, and she had trailed after him, realizing that he was actually taking her to his rooms. Although he had accorded her this honor on occasion, he usually seemed to prefer to use his office, forcing her down upon the desk or the couch or against the wall as his body slammed into hers. 

He had not said another word to her, but his lips had curled in triumph as she did her best to please him that night. Not that she, as a slave, ever had a choice in the matter. But she had heretofore retained enough of her dignity to refuse to pretend to enjoy it when he forced her into certain painful and degrading positions. This night, however, she swallowed her pride and emitted little moans of false pleasure as he sodomized her. 

Even in that regard, she was more fortunate than most of the other slaves, she knew. When he had torn or injured her, he always sought to heal and soothe her immediately, providing unguents and potions that relieved the pain that he had just inflicted. And he kept her strictly to himself. The other slave who had been auctioned with herself and Flame, a girl with long, dirty-blonde hair and slightly protruding eyes had been unlucky enough to be bought by Mistress Lestrange. It was whispered that the acts she forced her slaves to perform with each other went beyond the realm of perversity into the arena of actual physical harm. 

Yes, she thought, rising from the now immaculate floor and turning her attention to the walls, she was luckier than most. Not that she wouldn't kill the hook-nosed bastard to obtain her freedom, but that wasn't an option at the moment. 

The interrogation of the previous night must have not been very prolonged, she decided, finding that there were only a few spots upon the wall that she needed to scrub away. Having completed the cleaning portion of her duties, she pocketed the wand and walked over to the shelf where the various bottles of potions and Veritaserum were stored. 

Two vials of the latter had been used, she noted, of the moderate and heavy strength. So she would need to replace those from the office. And a bottle of Babbling Beverage. The torturers must have been in an unusually bizarre mood last night to dispense _that _potion to their victim. She was rather surprised to see that none of the bottles of poisons had been disturbed, thinking that the comparably small amount of material splattered upon the room had indicated a swift demise. But then again, she thought, thinking back to her brief image, it had appeared to have been a very small, very old witch. 

With a sigh, she turned toward the door. It would take only a few minutes to take the supplies to her Master's office and retrieve the appropriate vials to replace the missing ones. There was a very good chance that the delay in the performance of her duties might go unnoticed. 

As she neared the door to the office, she was almost smiling in relief. But as she retrieved her wand and pointed it in the direction of the knob, her heart sank as the door opened before she could utter the charm. She began to tremble, but managed to return the wand to her pocket and force herself to walk through the doorway. 

He had returned and was seated at his desk, his green-feathered quill scratching noisily against the parchment as he bent over it, his nose so near to the sheet as to almost touch it. There was the faint smell of freshly-brewed tea in the air, presumably arising from the large china cup that sat upon the desk. Despite her apprehension she heard her stomach give a large gurgle as she crossed the room. With all the excitement, she had neglected to pick up something to eat while she was in the kitchen. Carefully setting the bag of supplies down upon the counter, she opened up the cupboard and retrieved the necessary vials. The bottles seemed to clank loudly in her hands as gathered them, though when she glanced out of the corner of her eye it appeared that he had not deigned to notice her presence as yet. But as she paused to close the door of the cupboard, she heard his scribbling abruptly cease. There was a slight tinkling sound as he picked up his cup of tea and then an appreciative and loud sipping noise. To her chagrin, her stomach emitted another loud growl. 

"You have all of the supplies I requested, Madeleine?" he asked in a low, bored tone of voice. 

One of the many things she had never dared to ask him, even in their most intimate moments, was why he had chosen that name for her. Of course, for all she knew, perhaps it was her _real _name. 

She nodded and turned to face him, carefully training her gaze upon his long, slender hands rather than his face. "Yes, Master, all of them. I shall sort them out in just a moment," she promised. 

"Are they in satisfactory condition?" he prompted. 

"Yes, Master Severus. Although-" She hesitated for just a moment before continuing, "It appeared that many of the plants needed watering," she added, frowning slightly. "But the were still useable." 

"I see. Did you attend to them before you left?" 

"Yes, Master," she replied, feeling a slight sense of relief wave over her. "I stayed to water them before I left." Of course, she thought, she could always claim that her tardiness was due to the fact that she had stayed to water the plants. 

"An excellent precaution," he commented, a soft tone of admiration in his voice. "But then, I have come to expect nothing less from you than absolute attention to detail." 

She dared to raise her eyes to his face and saw that he was smiling and nodding in approval. 

"And those-" he said, gesturing toward the bottles that were still held in her hand, "Are they only replacements needed for the Interrogation Room?" 

"Yes, Master," she answered, looking down at the labels as she read them off. "A 'Babbling Beverage', and two bottles of Veritaserum: one regular-strength and one large extra-strong dose." 

"Hmm." 

She swallowed and ventured another glance at his face. To her horror, she realized that he was looking over her shoulder toward the fireplace, where a large clock stood upon the mantle. 

"But it seems you are running behind your time today, does it not?" he inquired. 

There was nothing she could do to stop shaking now. "Yes, M-m-master," she replied, through chattering teeth. "But there was a lot to clean up in the room today, it t-t-took me m-m-much longer today than usual." 

"Really." There was a sharp squeal as she heard him push his chair back from the desk. "Please look at me, Madeleine," he said, very softly. 

She obeyed instantly. To her surprise, the expression on his face was merely gently puzzled. 

"I ran into McNair on my way back today," he said quietly, "And he mentioned to me his disappointment that last night's examination was not only remarkably unenlightening, but also regrettably swift." 

"I-I-I was also delayed because of the watering of the plants," she protested, weakly. 

He lips flicked upward into a bemused grin. "Oh, now, surely it didn't take you very long to accomplish that particular task," he chided, tilting his head back against his chair. "Even if you did indulge in a quick little shower for yourself." His smile broadened into a smirk. "I was watching you from one of the towers," he explained. Shaking his head, he began to rise from his chair. "Now, Madeleine, you know you are not allowed to bathe without my express permission?" 

With a noisy clank, she set the bottles down upon the desk and sank to her knees. 

"Oh, Master Severus, please forgive me," she whispered. Inwardly, she added: _And please, please, please let that be the only thing he saw._

"Perhaps just this once," was his reply as he came around the corner of his desk. "After all, it wasn't a proper bath, now was it?" 

"No, Master," she answered, staring down at the floor. 

"No, not a proper bath at all," he repeated, his fingertips trailing lightly over her hair and shoulders as he bent down over her. "You weren't not naked, were you?" Kneeling down beside here, he whispered into her ear, his voice dangerously silky. "You weren't standing there, slick with wetness, rubbing the lather over your body, were you, my Madeleine?" His hands began to roam over the front of her thin garment. 

"No, Master," she repeated. 

His fingers had dipped down underneath the dress, brushing against the soft skin of her breasts. 

Hating herself even as she did it, she arched her back against him, trying to distract him from questioning her any further. She felt him harden against her as he drew her hair to the side and dipped his head to nuzzle his face against the curve of her neck. 

"And you are in need of a thorough cleansing," he said, drawing back abruptly. "You reek!" he hissed, disdainfully. 

"Yes, Master." 

"A nice, hot bath with perfumed water and rich, soft bubbles," he murmured, bending closer to her again, his hands caressing her upper arms. "Wouldn't that feel heavenly?" he prompted. 

"Oh, yes," she replied, closing her eyes. This time her soft moan was real and unforced. 

"But, unfortunately," he said, his fingers tightening painfully around her arms, "You need to stop lying to me before you earn that reward. Now exactly what revelation occurred to you in the kitchen this afternoon?" 

She drew in a quick, dismayed breath. The shock of knowing that he was aware of what had happened was swiftly replaced with a sudden, intense anger. One of her fellow slaves must have been watching and listening to herself and Flame and had run to inform upon them. She wondered if Flame was even now receiving a beating from a hastily summoned Master Lucius. Or- 

She felt suddenly sick to her stomach. Had Flame been the informant? 

"I am angry enough that you have disobeyed me," he hissed, his fingers digging even deeper into her flesh and she could not help crying out in pain. "But do not dare to provoke me further by continuing to lie to me." He released his hold and rose to her feet. 

"Who told you?" she blurted out, ducking her head a moment later to avoid the blow that she was sure would follow to punish her for her audacity. 

"That need not concern you," he barked, his eyebrows drawn together angrily. He regarded her for a moment, and then a wicked smile widened his lips. "Oh, don't worry," he crooned, his voice full of false sympathy, "It wasn't your little red-headed friend who tattled." 

She started and gazed up at him, her mouth working wordlessly. 

"No, don't fret about her," he said, sniffing contemptuously. "I have already managed to erase her memory of what you told her this afternoon, without having to inform her Master of her insubordination." He laughed coldly. "Fortunately, she is much more susceptible to _Legilimens_ than you are." 

She blinked again, feeling a slight but undeniable throbbing in her temples as his words echoed in her mind. 

"Yes, every time you force me to perform this rather distasteful task I find that it takes longer and longer for me to penetrate into your consciousness," he said, shaking his head. "But, of course, my admiration for your intellect and sheer strength of mind is the main reason I fought so vigorously against those who thought you should have been summarily executed." He paused and frowned before continuing, "And those who wanted your mind drained so completely that you would have been turned into a blathering, drooling idiot." 

He tilted his head back and crossed his arms over his chest. "No, instead I determined that you would be infinitely more useful to me in a partially-obliviated state." Dropping his arms, he bent at the waist and cupped his hand under her chin, forcing her face toward his own. "And my reward for benevolently allowing you to keep most of your mental faculties intact has been a constant stream of defiant attempts on your part to regain all that knowledge which would jeopardize your continued existence." 

Dropping his hand away from her jaw, he sighed and began to pace around the room. "I had believed that it was merely the proximity of your recklessly impulsive friends that had caused you to be such a thorn in my side for the past seven years, but I must now admit, reluctantly, that I was mistaken." He paused and crossed his arms again, leaning back against the wall as he frowned down at her. "You have all the worse faults of a Gryffindor, including an irritating amount of bravery and an annoying habit of refusing to surrender, even when it is clear the battle is lost." 

Her head was pounding now and she raised her hands weakly to massage the sides of her forehead. His words were rousing a dizzying array of images in her mind, glimpses of sights and sounds that were vaguely familiar and yet disappeared before she could fully comprehend them. 

"And, last but not least, an insatiable curiosity," he concluded, striding toward the desk. "Now then, Madeleine, what did you remember?" 

She felt tears flowing from her eyes again, a response to both the discomfort and the terror that was currently flowing through her. 

"Come now," his voice was very gentle now as he knelt in front of her. "What is the use in fighting?" 

She glanced at his hands and saw that the bottle of 'Full-Strength Veritaserum' was clasped within his long white fingers. "You will have no choice but to tell me what I wish to know after I administer this." His lips quirked into a smile again. "And it will just mean more work for you to help me prepare a new batch," he taunted. 

For a moment her eyes wavered between the bottle and his dark, glittering eyes. And then her shoulders slumped forward and her hands fell into her lap as she allowed a low, half-strangled cry to issue from her lips. "A Pensieve," she said. "I remembered something about a Pensieve." 

"Ah," he said, putting the vial into his pocket and reaching out to stroke her softly against the cheek. His other hand was wrapped around his wand. "Look into my eyes." 

She shivered slightly, but did as he asked. 

_"Legilimens!"_

She found, to her surprise, that the pain began to subside rather than intensify as she stared into those cold black irises and began to talk. After a few minutes, she felt a curious, floating sensation and it was almost as if she were standing outside of her body, watching emotionlessly as the master continued to urge the slave to tell him all that she remembered. Another minute or two passed, and she was now unsure as to whether she was even speaking anymore, or if he were simply reaching into her brain and winnowing through her thoughts. 

_"Finite incantatum!"_ he said finally, pulling his hand away and rising to his feet. "That was quite sufficient," he muttered. 

Once he had broken off the contact, the throbbing in her head had returned with a renewed vengeance. Cupping her head in her hands she slumped down upon the carpet, feeling drained and sick. 

"Here." 

She looked up to see him bending over her once more with a bottle in her hand. But she knew that this vial contained a dose of pain reliever rather than the Veritaserum. 

"I can't" she protested weakly. 

"It will alleviate the nausea as well," he promised 

She took the proffered bottle and took a small sip. Finding it surprisingly tasty, she hastily managed to gulp down the rest of it. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, and within seconds started to feel amazingly better. 

"Stand up!" 

His voice was once more cold, with no hint of concern or compassion. 

"I have something to show you," he drawled, walking over to another cupboard. 

She rose to her feet and followed, feeling a strange, prickling sensation running down her spine as she did so. This cabinet, unlike the other one to which she was granted unsupervised access, had always been securely locked. She could not remember ever seeing him open it. But he leaned forward now, chanting out an incantation, and waving his wand with delicate, precise movements, and after several seconds the doors suddenly burst open. 

There was only one object contained within it. A low, shallow stone basin, and as she stepped nearer to it she knew what is was even before she was able to gaze into it. Stepping forward, she saw that it was filled with a curious half-liquid and half-gaseous silver-white substance. But mixed in with the silver were a large number of faint red and pink-colored blobs. 

"What are those?" she gasped, pointing at the darkened areas. 

"Unfortunately, when thoughts are extracted against the person's will, there is always a bit of bloodshed," he answered callously. 

She swallowed and closed her eyes for a moment. "Those are _my_ thoughts, aren't they?" she asked in a trembling voice as she opened them again. 

Instead of replying, he leaned forward and carelessly stirred the mixture with the point of his wand. Flicking his wrist upward, she saw a quick succession of scenes suddenly emerge from the mist. She was looking upward at what appeared to be the sky, and heard a voice that she vaguely recognized as her own saying "I read about it in _Hogwarts: A History._" The sky shimmered for a moment and then disappeared, and it's place were the figures of three children gathered around a steaming cauldron. For some odd reason, it appeared that they were standing in the middle of a bathroom. She again recognized herself, but before she could get a good look at the two boys who were standing beside her this vision also swam before her eyes and now she saw a flame shooting out of the tip of her wand and landing upon a piece of black cloth. It felt as it she were moving back and suddenly she realized that she was looking through a strange set of slats as the fire began to grow in intensity, burning more brightly and hotly as she continued to watch. And then there were cries and a pair of boots that she knew only too well began to stamp down upon the flames. 

"I set you on fire?" she asked incredulously. 

"Yes," he replied, using another quick flick of his wrist to force the silvery image back down into the basin. "I am quite indebted to you for providing me with the evidence to prove that which I always suspected," he added, dryly. Staring down into the basin, he pursed his lips for a moment. "Amazing objects, Pensieves." He raised his eyes to glare at her. "No matter how full they appear to be, there is always room for more. Turn around." 

"You're going to remove more of my memories, aren't you?" she said, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to remain calm. 

"Of course," he laughed. "I can hardly afford to let you remember the details that flooded into your brain today." He jerked his head in the direction of the cabinet. "Much less allow you to remember what is locked away in here." He smiled nastily at her for a moment before continuing. "No doubt you would stop at nothing to retrieve it and, given enough time, I am fairly certain you would succeed," he admitted. 

"Will you tell me something first?" she asked suddenly. 

His eyebrows drew up in a surprised arch. "And what exactly do you wish to know?" he asked, his own voice slow and suspicious. 

"What is my real name?" 

She winced as his harsh laughter echoed through the room. "Oh my dear Madeleine," he taunted, drawing back his lips so that his yellow, uneven teeth were clearly visible. "Why on earth would I dream of handing you such an important piece of information?" 

Her hands clenched into impotent fists as he bent over her again to whisper in her ear. "Whoever you were in the past, you are my property now. Your name is Madeleine and you will continue to be called that for as long as I wish," he said. 

Straightening up, he held out his wand. "Turn around, please." The tone of his voice and the accompanying wave of his wand left no doubt that it was an order rather than a request. 

She stared down at the floor, her fingers balling even more tightly, until she wondered if they would break under the strain. 

"Madeleine," he began, his tone once more silky and dangerous. "You have never been very adept at resisting 'Imperio', so there seems no point in attempting to do so now. After all, you have just proven yourself unable to prevent me from breaking into your mind." 

She raised her chin defiantly and stared directly into his eyes. "I hate you," she declared through her clenched teeth. 

He appeared to be neither angered or wounded by her pronouncement. In fact, to her distress he simply looked slightly amused. "That is your misfortune," he replied with a shrug. Raising his hand, he pointed the tip of his wand directly between her eyes. "Now please turn around." 

Her shoulders rigid and her head held high, she pivoted upon her heel and turned away from him, fixing her eyes upon a spider that was laboring to weave a web in the dark far corner of the room. 

"Now bring your thoughts of the events in the kitchen and of our earlier session to the forefront of your mind," he ordered. She jumped involuntarily as she felt him clap a his left hand upon her shoulder. "And do not attempt to deceive me, for I shall be examining your thoughts as I retrieve them," he warned. "It would be a shame to have to remove more than is absolutely necessary." 

A slight quiver of her body was the only reply. 

Raising the tip of his wand to her temple, he murmured something under his breath. As he drew the point away a long gossamer string of silver, tinged with pink appeared to be stuck upon the end. He twirled the wand in his hand for a moment, the strange substance winding around the shaft as he assured himself that all of the memory had been removed. Stepping backward, he raised the tip of the wand into the air until the strand thinned and snapped. Turning to the Pensieve, he dipped the wand into the swirling mist and then stood, frowning down into the bowl for a moment. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he turned back to the girl and repeated the procedure two more times. Nodding in a contented manner, he moved to shut the cabinet doors and carefully reset the wards. 

Striding to stand in front of the girl, he bent down and examined her face. There was a decidedly blank look upon it and although her eyes were open and blinking at appropriate intervals she appeared to be unaware of her surroundings. In addition, her lips were parted slightly, the jaw appearing unnaturally slack. He studied her for several minutes, as if to assure himself that there was no deception upon her part. 

Leaning forward, he waved his hand before her eyes. The irises remained fixed and staring, and did not appear to be aware of the movement in front of them. Taking a step backwards, he crossed his arms and whispered, very quietly, "Hermione?" 

Seeing no response, he narrowed his eyes and raised his voice. "Hermione!" 

The girl remained in her catatonic trance. 

With a slight grin upon his lips, he dropped his wand into his pocket and bent forward again. "Madeleine!" he hissed, at the same time snapping his fingers directly in front of her face. 

The girl immediately blinked several times, and her expression was one of absolute terror for a moment before swiftly changing into a guarded and suspicious look. 

"Master Severus?" she asked quietly, hugging herself as if a sudden chill had run through her. 

"Daydreaming again?" he sneered. "You were about to replenish the Interrogation Room supplies," he said, reaching down into his pocket to retrieve the vial of Veritaserum. Gesturing toward the other two bottles that still stood upon his desk, he continued. "Place all three of these upon the appropriate shelves and then return here as swiftly as possible," he growled. Pointing to the bag which still lay upon the counter he continued, in an annoyed tone: "You are behind in your work as it is."  


"Yes, Master," she answered, dropping her arms and holding out her palm for the vial which he still clutched in his hand.  


Tossing it to her, he watched silently as she retrieved the other two flasks and hurried out of the room. Only after she had left did his lips to curl into a smirk again as he slowly glided back toward his desk. Seating himself, he searched in his pocket for his wand and waved it over the cup of tea. Tossing the wand onto the desk, he picked up the cup and sniffed the aroma appreciatively before taking a deep swallow. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes and savored the moment.  


Most people would assume that being a double spy was a nerve-wracking and dangerous occupation. It certainly was, he admitted, opening his eyes and carefully placing the cup back upon the saucer. But that did not mean that one never found some exceedingly pleasing rewards along the way.

He never would have dreamed that Voldemort would continue to rise so quickly to power, especially since the Ministry had finally been convinced of his reappearance. Or that Dumbledore could have been lured so easily away from his beloved Hogwarts, allowing the Death Eaters to pick and choose among the small number of students remaining over the Christmas holidays. Just his damned luck that this was the only year that the Weasleys had insisted upon Potter accompanying their son home for the celebration. Although it had been extremely fortunate that the Weasley daughter had stayed behind to keep her best friend company since the Grangers had insisted the school was the 'safest place' for their beloved child to stay.  


Not that he had any illusions that Dumbledore or Potter were vanquished. Though he was surprised that they were taking this long to mount a counter-attack. But perhaps, for once, the Gryffindors were taking time to make a serious plan before embarking upon a foolish, headlong venture. Incredible as it seemed, there was the possibility that the members of that house had finally learned what Slytherins had known all along. That survival was more important than stupid, reckless bravery.  


He of course, had no particular concerns about the final outcome of the war. Whoever emerged victorious, he was certain that he could convince him that he had been their stalwart supporter all along. Should Albus and Potter win out, he would hurry to their side and produce the lovely Miss Granger as proof of his loyalties, along with evidence that he alone had managed to shelter and protect her when others had clamored for her death. The fact that he had used her as a slave was a regrettable but necessary cover for his most honorable intentions. It would help, of course, if he had time to sort through all of her memories and return only those with featured him in the best possible light. But he was willing to bet that the decisive battle, when it came, would be a tediously protracted affair, allowing him ample time to do so.  


If on the other hand Voldemort won? Well, all the better. In truth he preferred his current position as a valued and pampered aide de camp to that of a lowly Potions Master. Certainly Professors were not allowed to keep house-elves, much less a young and pretty concubine for their own personal pleasure. And once assured that Potter had been defeated, he could allow himself the additional satisfaction of allowing her to remember exactly who she was and all that had passed between them. It would make her current degradation all the sweeter for him to have the little know-it-all aware of the depths to which a former 'Head Girl' had fallen.  


He hurriedly retrieved his quill as he heard her footsteps returning to the office. He frowned down at the parchment and then dipped the nib back into the ink, scribbling furiously across the page as she entered. Walking on tiptoe, she moved to the counter and began to empty the sack of the supplies, placing them within the appropriate spots within the cupboard.  


Sitting back in his chair, he tapped the feather thoughtfully against his chin as he glanced back toward her. She was completing her task swiftly and efficiently, seeming so absorbed in her work that she was not aware of his perusal.   


Although there was a certain amount of perverse pleasure to be exacted from her current state of obliviousness, he was beginning to tire of it. And even_ he_ had found it awkward when, the first night he took her to his bed and inquired as to whether or not she was a virgin, she had found herself unable to answer him. (Within a few minutes, of course, there had been clear and undeniable evidence that her maidenhood had been heretofore unassailed.)   


Finally feeling the heat of his gaze upon her, she turned toward him and stood with her hands clasped in front of her. "Yes, Master Severus?" she asked quietly. "Is there something wrong?"  


He clucked his tongue and tossed the pen once more to the side. "You are disgustingly dirty today, Madeleine," he reprimanded.  


"Yes, Master," she answered meekly. "But it was quite hot today and-"  


"Then why don't you at least have your hair up?" he demanded.  


"Oh," she said, clutching rather blankly at her hair for a moment and screwing her eyes up in concentration. "I think," she said, very slowly, "That my hairband broke."  


"You mean you mislaid it?" he roared, raising his hands to the desk and pushing back angrily.  


"No, Master, please," she whispered, her hands digging into her pockets. "Look!" she shouted, bringing out the remains of a dirty, worn band. "I told you it broke," she said, holding it upon her open palm in front of her.  


"I see," he said, in a lower if still somewhat disgruntled voice. "Well, why didn't you fix it?"  


"I wasn't sure if it was allowed," she whispered, still holding her hand out in front of her.  


"Ah, and you never perform magic unless you are sure I approve of it, do you?" he asked, his voice suddenly soft and gentle.  


"No, Master," she replied, staring down at the floor.  


"Would you like a new one?"   


She dared to raise her eyes to meet his gaze now and found that his manner was now calm and almost considerate.  


"If, if I may?" she responded, hesitantly.  


"Now, Madeleine, you know I would not offer it otherwise." With a wave of his wand, a new gold-colored hairband appeared upon the dark surface of the desk.   


"Thank you, Master," she said, stuffing the old band back into her pockets and walking forward to retrieve the new one.  


"But I do not wish you to wear it _yet,_" he rebuked, softly.  


She froze in position, with her hand reaching down to retrieve the small band.   


He smiled and crooked a the forefinger of his right hand, beckoning her to join him on the other side of the desk. As she slowly walked toward him, he spread his legs and began to undo the zipper of his fly.   


"I want to run my fingers through your hair while you pleasure me," he said, leering at her.  


She was already kneeling down between his legs. "But my hair is dirty," she said, in a worried tone of voice.  


With a shrug, he bent over to retrieve his wand. "An easily corrected condition." He pointed the wand at her head and a moment later her hair appeared to be slightly lighter and much bouncier in texture. As he wound his fingers through the light brown curls he smiled again.  


Ah, yes, there were times it was much more pleasurable to be a Death Eater.  


  


  


Author's Note: I have no idea where this strange, rather unpleasant plot bunny arose from. I swear that angst is not a medium I often read, much less have ever felt compelled to write. I really started the day intending to write another chapter to the much lighter and humorous "One Plus One Equals Three." But this story idea appeared in my head this morning and absolutely refused to leave, giving me no peace until I spent the better part of the day writing it down. Is it truly a stand-alone, or will I return to expand upon it? Honest truth, right at the moment, I don't know. Reviews and comments welcomed. Go ahead and flame if you hate evil Snape, for I certainly have written him that way this time.  


As for Madeleine, what can I say, I'm a Hitchcock nut, and if you're a Vertigo fan, you'll appreciate the reference.  


  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  



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